


Scratch

by Zai42



Series: October 2020 [26]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Gen, Improvised surgery, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: It started as an itch.Prompt: Wings
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Skraak
Series: October 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946893
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46
Collections: A Wilde Ride October Collection





	Scratch

It began as an itch, deep in the meat between his shoulders, and scratching at it did little to alleviate it. Hamid squirmed awake, arching back against his mattress to try and scrape it away. He blinked awake; it was difficult to tell time, this far north, but he sensed it was still late at night, still quiet. He rolled out of bed and wrapped himself in furs to go up to the deck; now that he was awake, he doubted he would be able to sleep again anytime soon.

The sky was moonless and cloudless, dotted with far more stars than could be seen in the cities, but Hamid barely glanced at them. The itch between his shoulder blades had flared up again, more painfully now in the cold and dry air, and he writhed briefly, wriggling a hand beneath his jacket and scratching hard, his nails lengthening to claws without his input.

He noticed, distantly, and couldn’t bring himself to care. He drew blood and didn’t stop until a clawed hand curled around his wrist. “Hamid,” Skraak’s voice said, gravelly and curious. “What are you doing?”

“I - I think something’s wrong,” Hamid managed. Skraak had a grip on both his wrists now, staring at the blood on his claws with a vague expression of concern on his features. “It’s - ” It wasn’t quite an itch, anymore, but Hamid still felt the urge to claw at his skin, and he went limp in Skraak’s grasp, shivering against the urge to struggle. “Help,” he said, weakly.

Skraak sighed, impatiently but not unkindly, and pulled Hamid below decks once again, into the kitchen, with its bright overhead lighting. “Show me,” he said, and Hamid scrambled out of his cloak, his claws slicing off buttons in his haste.

Skraak was silent for a long moment, and Hamid’s claws sank into the tabletop with the effort of not scratching. “Wh-what is it?” he finally croaked.

“Bite this,” Skraak said, and passed Hamid a leather belt.

“Skraak - ?”

“Just do it.”

Hamid threw Skraak a nervous glance over his shoulder, but his back throbbed hotly enough that he took the strip of leather without further complaint, folding it over and placing it between his teeth with shaking fingers.

He felt his teeth click together through it as Skraak sliced open his back, but he was too stunned to scream; as the flesh of his back parted, Hamid felt something burst forth, something wet and membranous, draping over his back in a twitching sheet, hot and bony beneath a slick layer of leathery skin.

Hamid blinked, the belt falling from his lax mouth. Wings. They twitched, flicking a clear, viscous fluid, and Hamid’s first, absurd thought was that Zolf would be furious that they’d used his kitchen as an impromptu surgical theater.

Hamid was vaguely aware of running water, and glanced over to see Skraak up on a chair, washing his hands in the sink. “You should probably wash those,” he said, nodding towards Hamid’s back.

“What...are they,” Hamid said. He tried to flex a muscle, to make them move on their own, but they were unresponsive.

Skraak shrugged. “Wings,” he said. “I’ve stopped asking questions about the things you get up to, Hamid.” He stared, unnervingly unblinking, face inscrutable. “Are you growing anything else?” he asked eventually, tilting his head.

Hamid’s wings twitched; it reminded him of nerve endings firing in dead flesh. He felt, suddenly, very itchy.


End file.
